


Herbalist’s Guide to Skyrim

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, archive warning: as a treat, archive warning: ben can give a little head, archive warning: ben solo and his vast library of neuroses, archive warning: lord there is a lot of swearing in this, archive warning: minor drug induced panic attack, archive warning: or do you wanna deal some damage?, archive warning: prescription weed usage, archive warning: rey is too cool for school, archive warning: shake the wares your mama gave ya, archive warning: you looking for protection?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23917750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: Ben Solo doesn’t smoke often, but when he does it’s all inane rambling about creating an ancient dragon language from scratch, and hundreds and hundreds of canonical books about a fictional fantasy universe and isn’t that just like an absolutelyinsaneamount of dedication for a freaking video game?ORBen Solo gets high with Rey. It does not go as planned.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28
Collections: REYLO WEEK 2020





	Herbalist’s Guide to Skyrim

**Author's Note:**

> @jadeddiva sent me this [post](https://whitepeopletwitter.tumblr.com/post/611827516310732800): “one time I invited this girl over and we got high and I sat down and explained the entire plot line of Skyrim to her for 45 minutes and she still had sex with me it was unbelievable,” and it was all downhill from there. And please keep in mind, while I am not entirely unfamiliar with smoking, it’s not something I do often so I beg of you to not @ me if there are some inaccuracies. I am however very familiar with having panic attacks and playing Skyrim, so that’s probably pretty accurate.
> 
> I initially wasn't planning on submitting this for [Reylo Week 2020](https://reylodaily.tumblr.com/post/613799988156350465/quarantine-blues-hitting-you-hard-are-you-turning) but it ended up coinciding pretty nicely with Day Four (AU: Canon Divergence/Fusion or Crossover/Modern), so I figured what the heck! It'll be up on Tumblr tomorrow (4/30).

Rey Kenobi _really_ needed to get in the habit of bringing dates to restaurants she had no emotional attachment to. She had already lost an unacceptable number of extremely _dear_ favorites that had been there for her when she’d had less than nothing and now? Blighted by the memory of mediocre men who she _knew_ she had given far too much power. She knew she had an association problem, okay? She and her mildly overpriced therapist were working on it. Had been working on it. For a while. She really missed the dumplings from Hunger Pang.

And she was about to really miss the curry from Pippali. _Fuck it all._

“I have a prescription.”

“Yeah,” her date chuckles with a scoff, “I’m sure you do. What, you got PTSD or something?”

“Actually,” she barks, hoping against hope that she’s had some kind of dormant telekinesis all these years, “yeah. I _do_.”

No matter how many times Dr. Holdo has insisted otherwise, it _still_ feels like a lie—a sinister manipulation. She suspected that it would always feel that way to some degree. Even in a situation like this one, in a casual conversation with someone she barely knew; who she felt little for and who had quite effectively removed himself from the second date equation, still she suffered from the extremely irritating feeling of crippling self doubt. Was it really so much to ask for a brief and shining moment borne of self-righteous shaming? To know with absolute certainty that her beratement was completely justified?

“Oh, um,” he coughs, “Cool. Got any to share?”

_So long, sweet Pippali. Don’t forget me._

* * *

Ben had never held an especially aggressive zeal _against_ casual drug users per-say, he just never felt inclined to indulge in that particular vice himself—this being _despite_ the freewheeling hippie discourse he’d been exposed to from what some might say had been an inappropriately young age. There were also of course specific episodes which may or may not have played a role in his current perspective. 

Like the time he had accidentally eaten a “special pancake” that his Uncle Luke had very casually left on the kitchen counter. _An 8 year old tempted by a plate of pancakes? No_ **_fucking_ ** _way._ Which was, incidentally, how a younger Ben had wound up with a truly embarrassing gap where his front teeth had been, having walked directly into their front gate shortly afterwards. Odd, since most pancakes he’d eaten prior didn’t usually produce similarly painful results.

They’d all had a good laugh of course. _You were fine, kid! Dunno what you’re still so upset about._ Except for Ben, who had been forced to endure an exceptionally rough few weeks at school after the fact (given the generally well-known fact that certain kids can and often _do_ go out of their way to be shitty to gangly, gap-toothed weirdos). The ears had always been fair game, but the gap and the lisp? Forget about it.

Long story short, he didn’t necessarily have a problem with it (he’s not like an anti-weed _crusader_ or anything), he was just thoroughly unimpressed by it. In the tired, jaded way that only childhood can manage to inflict. He’s not prone to feeling regret over things he’s decided to shun based upon familial resentment, but he does feel _something_ like it when he meets Rey. Effortlessly cool, she’s beautiful in a completely unconscious way that makes her _prettier_ (which is kind of a nightmare); scary smart and willing (for some reason) to hangout with him, despite the fact that he’s prone to bouts of extreme neuroticism and unpleasantness.

The first time he sees her it’s from across an open fire at a rooftop party for all the university TA’s. He’s only there at all because he knew he’d never hear the end of it otherwise and he’d much rather be left the fuck alone. He’d wandered outside because there were significantly less people (crowds had a tendency to make him nervous) and there she’d been; framed in wisps of smoke and flame, a wine glass in one hand with a joint resting between her fingers. She’s grinning at Rose Tico, a TA from the science department he’s pretty sure, and _fuck_ if he didn’t wish he was a million times cooler than he actually was.

Thinking back, he can confidently say that she’s never _once_ been pushy about it. Even that first night, when she’d spotted him standing there awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. 

“Hey, there!” she’d said cheerily, “Ben, right?”

“Um—”

“Ben Solo? History?”

One day he’s going to ask her how and why she’d known that, what with no one really taking much of an interest in him _ever_ ; and he’s going to flush a rather delightful shade of pink when he realizes how often she’d observed and wondered about _him_ , but for now it’s all he can do to give a stiff nod that doesn’t exactly invite further conversation. Not that it deters her much.

“Why don’t you come on over here,” she beckons with her free hand, “a little hard to see you with all the smoke.”

Rose looks a bit uncomfortable when he finally shuffles over, but the grin has never left Rey’s face. She takes a quick hit and blows the smoke out of the side of her mouth (pointedly _not_ in anyone’s general direction), and offers it to him butt first.

“Oh, sorry,” she apologized, “did you want any?”

The accent makes the request _unbearably_ polite, and he almost finds himself wanting to. If not due to some decorum-related impulse beaten into him by his mother, then by the temptation to have his lips wrapped around the same bit of paper where hers have been (there’s a lipstick stain, by the way, and he does _long_ for death).

“Uh, no,” he mutters, “no thank you. Thanks though.”

“Not at all,” she says flippantly, putting it out on the rim of the pit before slipping it into the bag that’s slung across her shoulder. Rose makes some offhand comment about a department head, and the two of them get lost in conversation, giving Ben the time to perseverate on the fact that no one had ever so casually accepted his refusal before. That had been one of hardest things about his undergraduate years—the pressure to party. Something that he’d _never_ been interested in but which you seemingly needed to do all the fucking time or else be socially ostracized for the rest of your time there. Most exchanges similar to that first one he’d had with Rey would end with an annoying amount of jubilant ribbing and demanding to know why not and did he _know_ about the economic ramifications of legalizing _hemp_?

Which, yes, of course he did, his parents were unbearably progressive; but he also knew that most of those undergraduate weed warriors were far more interested in being able to smoke in their dorm rooms and not get in trouble than they were serious about a sensible drug policy. And to be fair, most of those experiences had occurred when he’d been an undergraduate, and it was largely a lot less prevalent now, but still, he was always worried it’d go to that place and he’d spiral into a self-hating vortex, wondering why he was such a pain in the ass all the time.

“Well, Benjamin, Ms. Tico is out. What say you?”

“Uh, sorry, about what?”

She laughs and it does something to his heartbeat—like a flutter. Gross.

“Pizza, Benjamin. Pizza.”

Over the course of his momentary lapse in situational awareness he seems to have missed Rose’s departure and it’s just him and Rey standing around the fire. Her eyes are a little glassy and her body language is loose, but there’s nothing sloppy in her voice; if anything the firmness with which says “pizza” makes her seem stone cold sober. The pizza is clearly important.

He hesitates, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he _desperately_ wants to, and he’s worried she’s only asking because he’s her only option, and doesn’t she _know_ that Ben Solo is a tall, unfun nerd who takes everything way too seriously and won’t take _one_ fucking hit at a stupid party?

“Come on, Ben,” she begs, tugging on his sleeve, “Please? It’s no fun slamming a whole pizza alone.”

He cracks a smile, and she seems to know she’s got him good and well _ensnared_ , pulling him towards the door.

“You won’t regret it,” she says, giving him a brief glance back, “I promise.”

* * *

She’s right of course (as always), he doesn’t regret it for a single second. Right up until tonight. Tonight he’s kind of regretting it. Because his mouth will just not stop _moving_ and he doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s _saying_ ; only that she sure as shit doesn’t care about it, and why the _fuck_ did he agree to do this in the first place? It’s not like she _made_ him. She never would. Never _will_. There was absolutely no earthly reason why. What he’s pretty sure is Poe’s voice clangs around in his head, _Except that you_ **_love her_** _, you big doofus._

Following the night in which he did in fact watch Rey “slam” an entire pizza, she became something of a constant in his life. Which he was very frequently surprised by and couldn’t seem to understand, so he was almost always waiting to never hear from her again. She grabbed his phone before he’d gone home that night, her fingers leaving greasy smudges all over the screen.

“You better text me,” she threatened, punching in her number, “and it’s Rey, by the way. Since you didn’t ask.”

 _Idiot._ “Oh, I’m—”

“I’m joking,” she grins, handing him his phone, “thanks for coming with me.”

He slips it into his pocket and tries to forget about the smudges. “No problem. It was… uh, fascinating?”

“They’ve done studies,” she gloats, “my ability to inhale food without chewing is unmatched.”

He _hates_ that he can’t stop smiling. “Noted.”

It took him a few days but he _did_ actually text her, which she gave him a reasonable amount of shit for. And it all moved pretty quickly after that. They met for coffee and graded papers together. She got him to go to bars with her friends and he took her to a few of his favorite museum exhibits. He told her more about his childhood than he’d probably told anyone (except for Poe, who only knew by association); while she told him about her undeniably traumatic childhood and how she’d started smoking weed to help with the panic attacks. 

She’d become an almost essential part of his life before he could do anything to protect himself, and it was all he could to stop wondering when she was going to smarten up and spend time with someone less… _Ben_. Poe (of course, _asshole_ ) was the one who opened the hideous can of questionably non-platonic worms and asked if they were dating. Which was part of the reason why he was currently sitting on Rey’s couch, several months after they’d first met, _definitely_ in love with her, gesticulating wildly as he pontificates on the war between the Nords and the Imperials and how both sides kind of suck if you really think about it.

She had been complaining about a particularly bad date, was the thing. Before all the pontificating. About how she’d taken the guy to her _favorite_ Indian place, and how she could never go there again because it was just _so horrible_ she’d never be able to eat the food without thinking about it.

“Like with you and weed,” she concluded, “just absolutely tainted by association.”

He winced and the neon sign of the pizza place from the night they’d first met flashed across his brain. “It’s… not _that_ bad.”

“Not that I blame you,” she was quick to reassure him, “sounds like a right nightmare.”

As if he had anything to complain about. It’s not as if _he’d_ been abandoned in an empty apartment as a kid, left to the whims of a broken foster system—bounced around from one home to another, hoping that someone would finally love you enough to keep you. _God, what was his fucking problem._ _Just take a hit for fuck’s sake, what’s the big deal?_

She’d given him a look like she _knew_ he was being weird but when he was adamant she’d handed it over, and it was about 25 minutes later that his heart started beating uncomfortably fast and her lips looked a little bit softer and he would’ve given _anything_ to not think about it, which was why he started asking her if she played any video games and when she said that no, she hadn’t, not for lack of interest, just lack of hardware, he’d started talking about _his_ favorite game; an RPG called _Skyrim_ , and now he couldn’t seem to shut the fuck up. She _was_ smiling though, so he was hoping that was a good thing.

* * *

 _Lord, what a beautiful idiot_ , she thought, mindful of the stupid grin she was _sure_ was plastered across her face. Sort of listening to what he was saying but also admittedly distracted by all the moles and freckles on his face, which were a bit more prominent with how flushed he’d gotten. She was genuinely starting to worry a little bit actually.

“So, ya know, you’re the Dragonborn, ‘hero-who-was-foretold,’ born with the soul of a dragon, whatever. And there are these two opposing dragons, right? It’s like Magneto and Professor X, but they’re—”

“Dragons?” she finishes with an enthusiastic giggle, and he’s absolutely _delighted_.

“Exactly. And you can explore this _entire_ continent, and there’s all these different guilds and groups you can join, but you can also like, build a house from scratch and _collect books_ , and Rey, listen to this—”

“I am _all ears_ , Ben.”

“Rey, you can _read the books_.”

“Well, I would certainly hope—”

“That’s an _insane_ level of detail, right? Like, who _does_ that?”

“It’s _very_ impressive,” she agrees, her concern growing slightly at the somewhat manic look in his eye. Heaving chest, all that. “Ben, are you okay?”

“What?” he asks, seemingly taken aback, “Why would you say that?”

“You just seem a little…” and her teeth clench together and her eyes get comically wide, and she will absolutely _not_ use the word crazy, but he seems a little bit… on edge. “Do you want some water, maybe?”

For however long she’s been using weed as a way to manage her symptoms, and however effective it is, there’s always the off day where maybe she shouldn’t have and it all goes a little bit awry. She knows what it looks like, knows how to manage it, but sweet, sweet Ben, he seems a little bit out of his depth, and she’s regretting not pushing back a bit more when he’d asked.

“Let me get you some water,” she says decisively, moving to stand, only his hand shoots out for her wrist and he’s got an absolutely heartbreaking deer-in-the-headlights expression when he pleads, “Please don’t go.”

“I’ll be _right_ over there,” she promises, gently removing his hand from around her wrist and squeezing, “less than 10 seconds, _tops_. I promise. The water will make you feel better.”

* * *

Okay, so _this_ was the other reason why he didn’t smoke. Like, he wasn’t lying, the whole culture (and his family) is _fully_ annoying, but he’s also an absolute _mess_ and mood altering drugs don’t necessarily agree with him. He talks to a therapist once every 6 months and plays immersive video games and daydreams about Rey. _Those_ are his coping mechanisms. And she said 10 seconds, right? Has it been 10 seconds and not 10 _hours_? Because it seems like it’s been a long time. _Fuck_ , she’s pretty.

“Here we go,” she says happily, her voice settling over him like a blanket, “drink up.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles around the lip of the glass, mortified at the amount of water he can feel dribbling down his chin.

“So, not that I’m not enjoying this,” she starts, resting her chin on her knee, “because I _totally_ am, but are _you_ maybe not enjoying this?”

He stops drinking once the glass is empty, and he’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon, and he knows that _this_ is gonna be it, the reason she stops texting and calling and walking around museums with him, it’s _this_ —

“Benjamin,” she says, forcefully, “stop. It’s okay.”

“I _know_ that—”

“Because I think you’re freaking out a little bit.”

She’s right, she’s totally right, he’s _freaking_ out. When is this over? He can’t remember. It doesn’t last that long, right? Edibles can last… God, what like… 12 _fucking_ hours? He’ll die. He’ll totally die. He’ll die and be dead, dead—

“Hush,” she says softly, effectively cutting off the seemingly endless train of debilitating thought as she scooches closer to rest her head on his shoulder and wrap her arms around his bicep. “It won’t be much longer, you took a _tiny_ hit. Tell me more about it.”

Her warmth and the way her hair smells (and what does shampoo even _smell_ like, really) makes talking difficult but he does manage a very stupid, “About what?”

She snorts, “ _Skyrim_ , dummy. The thing you were _just_ talking about.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

He manages it, _somehow_ , to talk about the Thieves Guild and how you’re _their_ boss technically and you should be telling _them_ what to do, for about 20 more minutes before he finally collapses against the back of the couch in _blissful_ unconsciousness.

* * *

He comes to an hour or so later to the feeling of her head against his chest. He’s not sure if she’s asleep or not, but he tries to remain as still as possible so he can really catalogue every _single_ detail of what it feels like. To have her in his arms. To really _know_ the way her breath comes when it's this close—rhythmic and wonderful.

Unfortunately, the inside of his mouth is pretty miserable, so he knows this’ll have to end sooner rather than later, and when he shifts he hears her emit a little whine which he will absolutely _not_ think about until he’s alone in his room, in the dark where no one can see his shame.

“Ben?” she grunts, pushing herself up on her hands so she’s hovering over him. _Shame._ “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, his gaze roaming _anywhere_ other than her face, which he’s sure is all slack with sleep and curious and _open_. “Thanks. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says quickly, trying to meet his shifting eyes, “it happens.”

He moves to get up but her thighs are steadfast and she continues, “You didn’t have to, you know.”

Of _course_ he _knows_ , he very nearly wants to spit. He’s a grown ass man, can’t turn down a little weed? But the vulnerability in her face is too… disarming, and all he does is shrug. Like a kid being forced to admit he’s done something wrong.

“Panic attack aside,” she continues, eyes sparkling, “it was undoubtedly amusing.”

He shuts his eyes in _pained_ mortification as it all comes _flooding_ back. “Oh, _God_.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she laughs, “it was cute.”

 _Cute?_ “Cute,” had never been used to describe him. Tall had certainly been used. Large. _Stoic._ Never… _cute_. It’s then that he comes to the world-bending realization that _Rey_ is almost _straddling_ him and she just called him _cute_.

“Ben,” she sing-songs, as if she’s asking him to come out and play, “open your eyes.”

He gulps.

“Please?”

Christ, he can almost _smell_ the pizza with the way she pleads with him—even several months and blocks away from that night. Like no time has passed. There are wispy bits of hair curling around her temples. And her nose is all wrinkled because she’s _beaming_ at him; and her eyes are _soft_ , even with the way the smile is almost breaking her face, and she smells like weed and there’s chamomile tea on her breath. She’s also incredibly _close_ , so much so that he can feel her breath against his lips and nose, almost as if she might… maybe—

She kisses him. Her lips pressing against his with a clumsy heaviness; her elbows finally collapsing under her weight from how she’s been hovering over him the last few minutes. She pulls away when he takes too long to kiss her the hell _back_ , and when she bites the corner of her lip like she’s wondering if maybe she’s done the wrong thing, he’s spurred into action, almost _lunging_ upwards to frame her face with his hands and kiss her soundly enough for there to be absolutely _no doubt_.

“Sorry,” he huffs into her mouth, groaning with the way she’s slotted herself over his lap, her thighs resting on either side of his torso.

“ _Stop_ bloody apologizing,” she murmurs, her fingers tangling in his hair.

History, pop culture, his own _uncle_ —all would seem to indicate that no self respecting woman would top a guy who took _one_ measly hit, talked about video games for an hour, had a panic attack, and took a _nap_ , but if one would, it makes sense that it would be Rey. The woman who, the night they first met, essentially swallowed an entire pizza in front of him. Who refused to let the people she cared about diminish themselves. Who never made him do _anything_ he didn’t want to. Except to go down on her. Going down on her seemed pretty important.

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to,” mouthing the word against the tempting dip of her stomach, “it’s that I don’t know if I’ll be—”

“Shut up,” she laughs and sighs all at once, applying a _gentle_ pressure to the top of his head that makes him harder, _somehow_ , “there’s _no_ fucking way you’re bad at this. I’ve already put money on it.”

“Wha—”

His question is lost to the way she stretches and adjusts beneath him, doing whatever she possibly can to get his mouth where she most certainly would like it to be.

“Hush, Benjamin,” she very nearly _sings_ , “you’re good at everything.”

And he might be able to admit that, yeah, okay, maybe. Maybe he’s good at this.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) [Herbalist's Guide to Skyrim](https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Herbalist%27s_Guide_to_Skyrim); (2) [Hunger Pang](http://www.hungerpangnyc.com/); (3) [Pippali](https://www.pippalinyc.com/)
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr on either [@hencethebravery](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com) and/or [@starlessness](http://starlessness.tumblr.com).


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